


New Message

by SushiOwl



Series: Steter Trumblr Prompts [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: College Student Stiles, Cuddling & Snuggling, M/M, Texting, Werewolf Healing, minor hurt/comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 03:39:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7961020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SushiOwl/pseuds/SushiOwl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles would poke Peter to see what he was doing at any given time, and Peter would humor him through easy conversation. Peter never seemed to be busy, which was weird, but he was an independently wealthy wolf and probably did little more than lie around on piles of money. It was kind of nice to know that Stiles wasn’t just sending his thoughts into the void, that someone was listening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Message

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't exactly a prompt. A Tumblr friend who was feeling down, and literally the only thing my socially maladjusted brain knows how to do is write fluff in these situations, so that's what I did. Thankfully she likes it, and that's what matters to me.

So high school had been less of a stellar experience for Stiles than he’d wanted. Mostly because the supernatural fucking melting pot that was Beacon Hills, but also because ADHD had a tendency to stomp his ass into the ground. Stiles wasn’t surprised when he failed one class his senior year because he hadn’t been able to concentrate for shit. But he decided that he was going to be on the Dean’s list in college, especially since he was leaving Beacon Hills and heading to Palo Alto.

But that didn’t exactly happen. In order to function optimally, he needed to get have a regular sleeping schedule, always take his meds at the same time, organize and prioritize his studying, and eat the proper brain food. And yeah, that did not fucking happen.

Stiles had little opportunity to talk to people about his problems. Scott was busy getting his vet degree while also trying to build relationships with alphas of other packs all over the country. Lydia was at MIT, nose deep in math courses and trying to get an internship at NASA. Derek had a baby now, which, what? (With Braeden. Not, like, by himself.) Stiles’s dad was probably busy enjoying his burden-less freedom, so Stiles didn’t want to bother him.

So somehow, that left him with Peter. Stiles only had his number because of a mass text conversation started by Derek, and Stiles had saved it, jokingly thinking he had a good candidate if he ever needed to sacrifice someone. But one day when he was feeling particularly lonely and overwhelmed, he shot off a text to Peter.

 **Stiles:** College sucks.

 **Peter:** Who is this?

 **Stiles:** It’s Stiles.

 **Stiles:** Stilinski.

 **Stiles:** Not that you know another Stiles, lol.

Stiles wasn’t sure when ‘lol’ stopped meaning he was laughing and started meaning he was dying inside. He tried to force a smile even though there was no one there to see it.

 **Peter:** Thankfully.

Frowning at his phone, Stiles figured that was the end of that. Peter probably had better things to do then entertain a college student. Stiles sighed and dropped his phone into his lap, contemplating downloading yet another computer game to give himself momentary joy. But then his phone buzzed again.

 **Peter:** Why does college suck?

Stiles found himself surprised and then smiling for real, just a little. He settled back against his pillows covered in their Mets cases and decided to tell Peter all about the past three months of his Freshman year. The people, the food, the loudness. He detailed his painfully heavy load and feebly tried to defend himself when Peter mocked him for taking an 8am class.

 **Peter:** Typical fish mistake.

 **Stiles:** Rude. As if you didn’t make mistakes in college.

 **Peter:** I did. I had a class at seven.

 **Stiles:** Oh god.

 **Peter:** Precisely.

Stiles gigglesnorted, imagining a younger, softer Peter rolling into class in his sleep clothes and a giant Starbucks in his hand. Wait, did they even have Starbucks in the dark ages?

 **Stiles:** Where did you go to school?

 **Peter:** Berkeley.

 **Stiles:** Stayed close to the homestead, did you?

 **Peter:** Yeah, you try telling Ophelia Hale, my mother and then alpha, that her baby boy wants to go to college more than an hour away.

 **Stiles:** Imagining you as a baby anything breaks my brain.

 **Peter:** So kind.

 **Stiles:** What did you study? You did basketball in school, right?

 **Peter:** Creative writing.

 **Stiles:** What.

 **Peter:** I did basketball in high school to protect my image, but I am a writer in my soul.

 **Stiles:** What do you write?

 **Peter:** Space operas, generally.

 **Stiles:** Have you ever been published?

 **Peter:** Yes, but I am not telling you my nom de plume.

 **Stiles:** Oh c'mooooon, that’s just mean.

 **Peter:** :)

 **Stiles:** Gross, no smileys allowed for zombies.

 **Peter:** That’s racist against the undead.

Laughter bubbled from Stiles’s chest, and he felt a bit warm in the cheeks. Then he looked at the time and had to book it to his next class.

And so began a casual, weirdly comfortable relationship in text format. Stiles would poke Peter to see what he was doing at any given time, and Peter would humor him through easy conversation. Peter never seemed to be busy, which was weird, but he was an independently wealthy wolf and probably did little more than lie around on piles of money. It was kind of nice to know that Stiles wasn’t just sending his thoughts into the void, that someone was listening.

 **Peter:** So, teaching?

 **Stiles:** Yeah.

 **Peter:** What grade?

 **Stiles:** Probably no later than second?

 **Peter:** So young.

 **Stiles:** I really like small kids and the idea of having a tiny army delights me.

 **Peter:** Now I imagining you being called Mr S.

 **Stiles:** Awwwww.

It got easier over a bit. Stiles figured some shit out, and even if it was all overwhelming, a Mystery Package of flash cards, multi-subject note books, binders, highlighters, and a copy of the latest Microsoft Office arrived at his dorm.

 **Stiles:** Thanks for the swag.

 **Peter:** If you never call it 'swag’ again, there might be more in the future.

 **Stiles:** Since you’re in a giving mood, can I ask a favor?

 **Peter:** You can ask.

 **Stiles:** Write my English 2 essay for me?

 **Peter:** Haha.

 **Peter:** No.

Stiles loved the weekends. He told himself he would study during them, but then he did that for some of Saturday and just went back to sleep. It did give him the opportunity to chat to Peter uninterrupted though.

 **Stiles:** What are you up to?

 **Peter:** Writing.

 **Stiles:** Really?

 **Peter:** I figured I would try to get back into it. I have been thinking about it since you started bothering me about my other stuff.

 **Stiles:** You will give me your pen name.

 **Peter:** No I won’t. But I might let you read this when I am done.

 **Stiles:** Might?

 **Peter:** It’s possible it’s a little mature for you.

 **Stiles:** ARE YOU WRITING PORN RIGHT NOW?

 **Peter:** Excuse you, no, I am writing erotica.

 **Stiles:** Vomit.

 **Stiles:** You know that if you publish that and let me read it, I will know your pseudonym, right?

 **Peter:** It will be under a different name.

 **Stiles:** Why?

 **Peter:** I can’t publish under the name of a dead man.

 **Peter:** That would be weird.

 **Stiles:** Oh.

 **Peter:** Also, my publisher would want me to finish the series I was midway through, and I don’t wanna.

Stiles burst out laughing, covering his eyes and murmuring about what a silly zombiewolf Peter was. He kept the conversation up, trying to figure out what Peter was writing. But for a guy that loved to talk about himself, he was not dropping any hints.

A week later, Stiles was in his bed at nearly two in the afternoon, eyes clenched shut as his head throbbed. He wanted the world to stop existing for a while. And when his phone buzzed, he reached out of his nest and blindly grabbed for it before bringing it in. He cursed at the brightness a second, before he dimmed the screen to a fraction of what it had been. He blinked watering eyes at the text.

 **Peter:** You’re quiet today.

Stiles groaned and thought about just ignoring the message, but Peter was not one to be ignored quietly. He tapped out a message.

 **Stiles:** Yeah. Headache.

 **Peter:** Didn’t you have a headache yesterday?

 **Stiles:** Yeah.

 **Peter:** And you still have one.

 **Stiles:** I guess.

 **Peter:** Did you take anything?

 **Stiles:** Don’t wanna move.

 **Peter:** Okay then. Get some rest.

Stiles dropped the phone face down and curled up again, hoping that if he prayed for sleep hard enough that it would actually come. But he doubted it would. He hadn’t slept the night before. He’d just been trapped in a restless haze where he would instantly be over-aware of his surroundings when a arrow of pain shot through his skull whenever he tried to move.

Eventually he lost hold on his concept of time all together. But then the covers keeping him safe from the light were slowly being pulled back, and he jerked in shock, grabbing at them and hissing some kind of expletive. What was happening? Where was he? Who was attacking him? Where was his mountain ash?

“Hey, Stiles, it’s alright, it’s just me.”

Stiles stalled and blinked up at the figure, his vision clearing just enough to reveal Peter’s face with his blue eyes and perfectly groomed goatee. The fight _whooshed_ out of him, and he crumpled against the pillows again. “What’re you doin’ here?” he grumbled.

“I came to see if you died,” Peter said, and he held onto the covers when Stiles tried to burrow back under them. “Tell me about your symptoms.”

“I’m dying,” Stiles groaned. That was really the extent of his self-diagnosis.

Peter sighed, and the tiny bed dipped a little. Stiles peeked to see that he had sat down and that he had a plastic bag on his lap. “Where is the pain?”

“Everywhere.”

“Where did it start?” 

Stiles tried to think, even if it hurt. Then he touched the right side of his head, right above his temple. “Here.”

“Did you see anything weird before it started?”

Confused, Stiles furrowed his brow, which ow. “Like, a ghost or something?” Oh God, did the paranormal follow him out of Beacon Hills? Was he haunted?!

Peter smiled a little. “No, like black spots in your vision.”

Oh. Stiles started to shake his head, before he stopped. “I mean, I saw these streaks of light, but I thought it was from staring at the computer screen.”

“Hm. And you have sensitivity to light now?”

Stiles nodded, wincing.

“Any nausea?”

“Only when I get up.” Stiles swallowed a few times. “I had to piss earlier and, like, I was walking like I was drunk, and then I thought I was gonna puke. So I came back to bed as fast as I could.”

“Have you eaten in the last eight hours?”

Stiles had a feeling the answer to that was a definite no, but for the sake of it, he asked, “What time is it?”

“It’s almost 7pm.”

“Yeah, no, but I ate break--no, I didn’t--I ate some dinner last night?” Stiles didn’t even bother feeling sheepish about it.

Peter sighed the familiar sigh of why do I put up with this? and opened his bag. “Sit up. You going to drink this Ensure, eat a protein bar, and then we’ll do something about your migraine.”

“Migraine?” Stiles asked as he pushed himself up like he was escaping quicksand. “I’ve never had a migraine before.”

“You’ve never been a college student before.” Peter shook the Ensure bottle before pulling off the plastic and opening it. “You know, with Lydia gone, you’re supposed to be the smart one.” He offered it to him.

Stiles glared a little and took it. “Haven’t had one of these since I was little,” he said, sniffing it, before he drank it fast like it would taste like medicine. But actually it was just like a thick chocolate milk, and that was kind of nice. Then he took the protein bar, realizing how hungry he was once he tasted the chocolate and peanut butter.

Once he was finished, he watched Peter dispose of the bottle and wrapper, before he kicked off his shoes, shrugged off his jacket, turned and picked Stiles up like he weighed nothing. Stiles squeaked and clung to him like a koala, ending up on his front as Peter settled in the bed and pulled the covers over the both of them.

Stiles had his face smooshed into Peter’s chest. “Okay, Uncle Bad Touch, what’re you doing exactly?”

“Helping,” Peter said, his fingers going to Stiles’s probably disgustingly damp with sweat hair.

“And how are you helpiiiihuuuuhbruhhhhbluuu...” 

Stiles had had morphine once, and that didn’t compare in the slightest to werewolf healing powers right into his brain. He had forgotten what it felt like not to feel any pain at all. This was kind of like amazing pleasure, but it was better. It was the absence of anything bad ever.

“...lubię to...” 

And he was asleep.

When he woke up, he felt immensely better, if still tired. His head still hurt, but it was a bare echo of what he felt before. He blinked in the dark and looked up, finding Peter asleep in a weird position against the headboard. He snorted.

“Hey, zombiewolf,” he huffed at him, not moving at all. Peter groaned a little and opened an eyes, looking like he was definitely feeling that funny angle his neck was at. “Thanks. I feel better.”

“Mm, just remember I’m keeping count of the favors you owe me,” he said, sounding sleepy as he tried to extract himself from Stiles. But Stiles held on, squeezing him around the middle. Peter blinked slowly down at him. “You want me to stay?”

Stiles nodded against Peter’s chest.

A smile Stiles had never seen on Peter’s face took up residence there, curving his lips gently. “Okay, but move your ass. Your bed is horribly tiny.”

Stiles huffed, helping him into a good position and throwing a leg over his knees as his face and Peter’s neck became one. “You’re telling me.”

They were silent for a bit with Stiles just listening to Peter’s pulse and the rhythm of his breathing. Then, because he was a ruiner of things and had no impulse control, he had to ask, “So are you going to tell me your pen name now?”

Peter made a funny little laugh noise like _pff!_ “Oh, you think we’ve come to that point in our relationship?”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “I dunno. More like we skipped the exposition in a book and went right to the middle.”

“A literary joke will not help you. Besides, only bad authors put all the exposition in the beginning.”

Stiles sighed so heavily he cleared his mind chakra. 

Peter laughed. “I’ll tell you someday. It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

Stiles smiled into Peter’s shirt, nuzzling a little. He felt Peter’s fingers in his hair, and that was so good. He wasn’t even doing his healing, but holyaughabuuhru.

“Sleep, Stiles.”

So he did.

**Author's Note:**

> So "lubię to" is basically Polish for "I like" like how some English speakers say "me gusta" and nothing else. xD
> 
> Come and say to me on [tumblr!](http://thesushiowl.tumblr.com/)


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